This she undoubtedly did and her own precious Jessamy was a part of my childhood and girlhood. It was Jessamy's clothes which came to the vicarage and were made over for me. I was slightly taller, which would have made them short, but she was broader-shouldered and took them up more. Janet said it was child's play to take them in a bit and there was better stuff in them than any that would find their way into this house from the shops.
"You look a sight better in them than Miss Jessamy," she would say and, coming from can't-tell-a-lie Janet, that was gratifying.
So I was accustomed to wearing castoff clothes. I can remember very few that did not come via Jessamy. Spending such a lot of time with her, wearing her old garments, did make me become a part of her life.
There was one time when Aunt Amy Jane thought it was fashionable to send girls to school, and there was talk of our going. I was excited at the idea. Jessamy was terrified. Then Dr. Cecil, he who had suggested that there should be no other Seton child in the nursery but Jessamy, decided that she was not strong enough for a boarding school. "Her chest," was all he said. So no school it was, and as Jessamy's chest was too weak to let her go, mine, strong as it might be—and it had never given me or Dr. Cecil any indication that it was not—could not take me there. Fees would have to be paid by Sir Timothy, and it was not to be thought of that I should be sent and paid for while his daughter remained at home.
When there was entertaining at Seton Manor, Aunt Amy Jane always did her duty and invited me. When she came to the vicarage she rode over in the carriage with a foot warmer in the winter and a parasol in the summer. On winter days she would pick up her beautiful sable muff and alight from the carriage while the Seton coachman held open the door with the utmost display of deference and she would march into the house. In the summer she would hand her parasol to the coachman, who would solemnly open it and hold it out in one hand while he helped her to alight with the other. I used to watch this ritual from one of the upstairs windows with a mixture of hilarity and awe.
My father would receive her in a somewhat embarrassed way. He would be frantically feeling for his spectacles, which he had pushed up on his head. They always slipped too far back and he would think he had put them down somewhere—which he did now and then.
The purpose of her visit was certain to be me, because I was her Duty. She had no reason to bother herself about a man who owed his living to her benevolence—or Sir Timothy's, but all blessings which fell on our household came through her, of course. I would be sent for and studied intently. Janet said that Lady Seton did not really like me because I looked healthier than Miss Jessamy and reminded her of her daughter's weak chest and other ailments. I was not sure whether Janet was right but I did feel that Aunt Amy Jane was not really fond of me. Her concern for my welfare was out of duty instead of affection, and I have never relished being the object of duty. I doubt anyone ever does.
"We are having a musical evening next Friday," she said one day. "Anabel should come. She should stay the night as it will be late before it is over, and that will be much simpler. Jennings has the dress she will wear in the carriage. He will bring it in."
My father, struggling with his self-respect, said: "Oh, that isn't necessary, you know. I dare say we can buy a dress for Anabel."
Aunt Amy Jane laughed. I noticed that her laugh was rarely mirthful. It was usually intended to dismiss or denigrate the folly of the one to whom it was directed.
"That would be quite impossible, my dear James." When she said "my dear" that was very often a term of reproach. I was struck by that. Laughter was supposed to express gayety; endearments were for expressing affection. Aunt Amy Jane turned them about. I supposed it came of being such an efficient, highly respectable, always-right sort of person. "You can hardly be expected to buy suitable clothes on your stipend." A repetition of the laugh as her eyes swept round our humble sitting room and mentally compared it with the fine hall at Seton Manor, which had been in the Seton family for hundreds of years with the gleaming swords on the wall and the tapestries which had been in the family for generations and were reputed to be Gobelins. "No, no, James, leave this to me. I owe it to Susan Ellen." The hushed note in her voice indicated that she was speaking of the dead. "It was what she would have wished. She would never have wanted Anabel to be brought up like a savage."
My father opened his mouth to protest but by this time Aunt Amy Jane had turned to me. "Janet can adjust it. It will be quite simple." Other people's tasks always were in Aunt Amy Jane's eyes. It was only those she undertook herself which demanded so much. She was regarding me somewhat malevolently, I thought. "I hope, Anabel," she went on, "that you will behave with decorum and not upset Jessamy."
"Oh yes, Aunt Amy Jane, I will and I won't."
I felt an irresistible desire to giggle, which I am afraid came to me quite frequently in the presence of a number of people.
My aunt seemed to sense this. She said in a low funereal voice: "Always remember what your mother would wish."
I was on the point of saying that I was not sure what my mother would wish, for I was argumentative by nature, and I could never resist the temptation to get a point cleared up. I had heard from some of the servants at Seton Hall that my mother had not been at all the saint Aunt Amy Jane was turning her into. My aunt seemed to have forgotten that she had been so headstrong in making a marriage with a poor curate. The servants said that Miss Susan Ellen had been "a bit of a caution. Always got a finger in some pie and making a joke of it. Come to think of it, Miss Anabel, you're the spitting image of her." That was damning enough.
Well, I went to the musical evening in Jessamy's watered silk, which was really very beautiful. Jessamy said: "Yes, you look prettier in it than I did, Anabel."
She was a sweet girl, Jessamy was, which makes what I did to her all the more reprehensible. I led her into constant mischief. There was the affair of the gypsies, which will give you a good idea of what I mean.
We were forbidden to walk in the woods alone, but the very fact that the woods were out of bounds made them specially fascinating to me.
Jessamy did not want to go. She was the sort of girl who liked to do exactly what she was told; she saw it all as for her own good. Heaven knew that was the explanation given to us often enough. I was exactly the opposite; and I took a great delight in trying to prove which was the stronger—my powers of persuasion or Jessamy's desire to keep to the paths of righteousness.
I invariably won because I went on worrying her until I did. So at length I persuaded her to venture into the woods where some gypsies were camping. We could have a quick look, I said, and go away before they saw us.
The fact that there were gypsies in the woods made it all the more important that we should not venture into them. However, I was determined and I taunted Jessamy with cowardice so mercilessly that at length she agreed to accompany me.
We came to a caravan. There was a fire smoking nearby with a pot boiling on it. It smelled quite good. Seated on the steps of the caravan was a woman in a torn red shawl and with brass rings in her ears. She was a typical gypsy, with a tangle of black hair and big sparkling dark eyes.
"Good day to you, pretty ladies," she cried out when she saw us.